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A Clean, 



by Ernest Hemingway 

edited by 
Raymond Soulard, Jr. 

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Portland, O r e g o k 

Scriptor Press 

A Clean, 

Well Lighted 


by Ernest Hemingway 

edited by 
Raymond Soulard, Jr. 

Number Twenty-eight 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place (1933) 

by Ernest Hemingway 

Burning Man Books is 

an imprint of 

Scriptor Press 

20 Milford Street 

Plainville, Connecticut 06062 

cenacle@mindspring. com 

www. geocities .com/ scriptorpress 

This volume was composed 

in the Bookman Oldstyle and 

Nueva Extended fonts 

in PageMaker 6.5 on the 

Macintosh G4 computer 

This volume is for Sean Lamont 

It was late and every one had left the cafe except an old man 
who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the 
electric light. In the day time the street was dusty; but at 
night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late 
because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt 
the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the 
old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client 
they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave with- 
out paying, so they kept watch on him. 

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said. 


"He was in despair." 

"What about?" 


"How do you know it was nothing?" 

"He has plenty of money." 

They sat together at a table that was close against the 
wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the terrace where 
the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the 
shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place • 5 

wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street 
light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore 
no head covering and hurried beside him. 

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said. 

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?" 

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get 
him. They went by five minutes ago." 

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer 
with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him. 

"What do you want?" 

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said. 

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at 
him. The waiter went away. 

"Hell stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy 
now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have 
killed himself last week." 

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer 
from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to the old 
man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass 
full of brandy. 

"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to 
the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger. "A little 
more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that 
the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top 
saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter 
took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table 
with his colleague again. 

"He's drunk now," he said. 

Ernest Hemingway 

"He's drunk every night." 

"What did he want to kill himself for?" 

"How should I know." 

"How did he do it?" 

"He hung himself with a rope." 

"Who cut him down?" 

"His niece." 

"Why did he do it?" 

"For his soul." 

"How much money has he got?" 

"He's got plenty." 

"He must be eighty years old." 

"Anyway I should say he was eighty." 

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three 
o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?" 

"He stays up because he likes it." 

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed 
for me." 

"He had a wife once too." 

"A wife would be no good to him now." 

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife." 

"His niece looks after him." 

"I know. You said she cut him down." 

"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty 

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without 
spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him." 

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place • 7 

has no regard for those who must work." 

The old man looked from his glass across the square, 
then over at the waiters. 

"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter 
who was in a hurry came over. 

"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syn- 
tax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or 
foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now." 

"Another," said the old man. 

"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table 
with a towel and shook his head. 

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took 
a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, 
leaving half a peseta tip. 

The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old 
man walking unsteadily but with dignity, . 

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried 
waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not 
half-past two." 

"I want to go home to bed." 

"What is an hour?" 

"More to me than to him." 

"An hour is the same." 

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle 
and drink at home." 

"It's not the same." 

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not 
wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry. 

8 • Ernest Hemingway 

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your 
usual hour?" 

"Are you trying to insult me?" 

"No, hombre, only to make a joke." 

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from 
putting on the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all 

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter 
said. "You have everything." 

"And what do you lack?" 

"Everything but work." 

"You have everything I have." 

"No. I have never had confidence and I'm not young." 

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up." 

"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older 
waiter said. 

"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all 
those who need a light for the night." 

"I want to go home and into bed." 

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He 
was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of 
youth and confidence although those things are very beauti- 
ful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may 
be some one who needs the cafe." 

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long." 

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant 
cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, 
there are shadows of the leaves." 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place • 9 

"Good night," said the younger waiter. 

"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light 
he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of 
course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleas- 
ant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want mu- 
sic. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that 
is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It 
was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. 
It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only 
that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and 
order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was 
nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in 
nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada 
in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and 
nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into 
nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full 
of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a 
bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine. 

"What's yours?" asked the barman. 


"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away. 

"A little cup," said the waiter. 

The barman poured it for him. 

"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is un- 
polished," the waiter said. 

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too 
late at night for conversation. 

"You want another copita?" the barman asked. 

10 • Ernest Hemingway 

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He dis- 
liked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very 
different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go 
home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with 
daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it 
is probably only insomnia. Many must have it. 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place • 1 1